


Gossip

by Janice_Lester



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alien Gender/Sexuality, Epistolary, Gen, Gossip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-27 00:54:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janice_Lester/pseuds/Janice_Lester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The <i>Enterprise</i> crew has a field day speculating about Spock's sex life.  The captain could <i>probably</i> do more to discourage this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gossip

**Author's Note:**

> Crack and foolishness. Contains outlandish and occasionally alarming speculation about sexual practices and alien anatomy. Features rampant crew misbehaviour and some off-screen violence. I blame Jim. Beta'd by [](http://nix-this.livejournal.com/profile)[nix_this](http://nix-this.livejournal.com/).

If Jim didn’t know better, he’d think that Spock was _enjoying_ the rumours.

But he knows better. Spock’s a Vulcan. He’s neither amused nor embarrassed by the rumours, and he finds them too illogical to be bothered trying to shut them down. Which is for the best, probably, since Jim’s not sure the average human would buy even a Very Vulcan public denial.

_~I heard that it has sound effects. Like it hums when it’s happy, and if he’s **really** pleased to see you… well, let’s just say that isn’t a kazoo in his pocket.~_

Jim considers this latest effort, (allegedly) from a midshipman in Maintenance, tapping the side bezel of his padd thoughtfully. Although he very much enjoys the skilled use of euphemistic cliché, on the creativity front he’s very much afraid he can’t give it more than a C+. _Musical_. Really. And a kazoo doesn’t play itself, so surely if it _was_ a kazoo it couldn’t be playing from Spock’s pocket unless he keeps a spare voice box and lung in there too.

 _Pedantic_ , Jim hears his mother tut in his mind. She usually meant it in a complicated mixture of exasperation, irritation, fondness, and admiration. Well, possibly he was imagining the admiration. He’s been told he does that from time to time.

It’s the work of ten seconds to set up a dummy network account in the name of one Ensign Pin Tobean so that he can safely add to the… discussion.

_~I heard that the smell of Vulcan pre-come is psychotropically addictive to humans. That’s why there are so few intermarriages—Vulcans don’t find it logical to put partners at risk of confusing an addiction with an actual desire to be together. Spock himself is half-human, though, remember. A hybrid might not have all—or any—of the characteristics of a full Vulcan’s penis.~_

By the time Jim has got up and made his regular twice-hourly round of the various bridge stations and returned to the centre seat, his padd has reported a small flood of exclamation-mark-heavy expressions of surprise, wonder, amazement, and that odd sort of disbelief-that-is-hopeful-of-being-proven-wrong. He wonders if it’s too soon to stir things up again. Distracts himself for a few minutes inventing more disposable identities.

 _~Vulcan stamina. All I’m gonna say,~_ he puts in, as Doctor Q. Ackery from Medical.

Over three dozen replies come in over the next two minutes. From the way Spock straightens up and looks sternly around the bridge, it’s possible he’s seen them too.

Jim decides it’s probably best to try doing some actual work right about now.

***

“You look pissed.”

“What would we do without your keen observational talents, oh fearless leader,” Bones says.

Even Jim can’t imagine up any admiring tones there. So he applies his much-vaunted problem-solving skills. “Drink?” He doesn’t trouble himself waiting for an answer, just uncorks the Saurian and splashes some into a couple of tumblers.

As usual, Bones becomes more forthcoming after the application of alcohol. “Idiots have been pestering me with medical questions all day,” he complains.

“Uh, doesn’t that kinda come with the job? I mean, don’t people come in with medical questions pretty much every day?”

“It’s not the questions,” Bones concedes. “It’s the _damn foolery_ of the questions.” He huffs. “I mean, even if I _did_ happen to know Commander Spock’s refractory period off the top of my head, I couldn’t _tell_ them, could I? And why in the blazes do they think I’m party to his favourite masturbatory practices?”

Jim doesn’t laugh, really he doesn’t. Okay, maybe a little. “I dread to think. Perhaps they think he’s injured himself during the course of these activities and had to report to sickbay to be treated for, I dunno, burns or tearing or unlikely items stuck in uncomfortable places?”

Bones gives him a piercing look. “I can imagine some of that taking place, yeah. But not with _Spock_ as the protagonist.”

Jim smiles. It’s nice to know Bones imagines him masturbating. “Sweet of you. But, seriously, there are some rumours going around so you may get more of that shit. Just try to deal with it without giving them any reason to think you’re withholding juicy secrets on grounds of patient confidentiality. Some denials only reinvigorate speculation, you know?”

“I’m a doctor, not a diplomat.”

“For which we are all supremely grateful.”

Bones nods and jerkily raises his glass to that.

Jim resolves to check the message logs to see just _what_ kind of lost insert-ables people might have been asking about. Maybe tonight, over a late dinner…

***

Musical instruments…

Meditation candles…

Weird Vulcan sex toys shaped like fish…

Tribbles… Wait. Really, people? _Tribbles?_ Jim’s mind boggles. Actually boggles. (It’s an odd sensation, disorientating and kinda painful. Much like he’d imagine the tribble--argh, stop it, brain!)

Jim’s tempted to track down whoever thought that up and satisfy himself that person does _not_ own a pet of any description.

 _Tribbles_.

For antidote purposes, Jim—as Lieutenant Jai Rate’n, the hippest dude in Security reds—floats the suggestion that Spock enjoys nothing more exotic or remarkable than being fucked in the ass by a nice fat cock.

No one seems very impressed. Ensign Trilby from the quartermaster’s department (really?) calls him a spoilsport.

Jim’s pretty much done with this shit for the day when a new message catches his eye. From a Nurse Beau Nez, would you believe?

_~For the record: 1) live animals should never be inserted rectally or vaginally unless this is standard non-harmful practice for your species or you have the go ahead from your fully qualified medical practitioner. 2) saliva is not an ideal lubricant for vigorous penetrative sexual activities. Even Vulcan saliva. Use the real thing. The ‘Fleet provides all the lube you can eat, free of charge. (Figure of speech. DO NOT eat personal lubricant.) 3) if any more of you come down here claiming to be chemically addicted to semen, the usually urbane Doctor McCoy has threatened to wring your fool necks. You have been warned.~_

Jim’s laughter reverberates, oddly loud in the nearly deserted Mess. Nurse Beau Nez, he’s gonna remember that one. And use it to great effect. Somehow. You just see if he doesn’t.

***

“Captain,” Spock says, primly moving his white knight to the third level, “I have noticed a recent upsurge in… amorous advances directed towards me.”

Jim considers making a useful comment, but it’s so much funnier to see that eyebrow twitch. “Good for you, Spock! You got game!”

Oh, yes. Twitch, twitch. “I believe I have tolerated the situation long enough. I find it illogical and disagreeable. To judge from the concurrent increase in staring at my person, the phenomenon is also injurious to ship’s productivity. I would appreciate your advice in aborting this unwanted attention forthwith.”

“Ah. That might be difficult. You see, there are these rumours…”

“I am aware,” Spock says, rather tightly.

“And it’s rather difficult to stop rumours.”

“I had hoped that the interest would wear itself out, but there has to date been no evidence of this process.”

“Give it time, Spock. Give it time. Because even if you get in there and actually tell them what they want to know, that won’t stop it. They’ll still want to believe that there are more salacious details to be had. Stay stoic, Spock.” He winks.

“It is… unprofessional,” Spock complains.

Jim moves his rook. “Human, though.”

“Indeed.” Spock moves a pawn. “That will be mate in four.”

***

Self-lubricating, someone suggests next morning.

Pre-ejaculate combines with secretions of Vulcan female to create glue-like substance which dissolves only gradually; equivalent of canine ‘knot’ or ‘tie’.

Has a large round bulge on top which stimulates the g-spot every time without fail. It’s good enough to make Vulcan women cry, and human women can barely survive the pleasure.

It. Has. Teeth.

Jim looks at Spock. Spock looks at Jim.

“Mister Spock? It has come to my attention that there are far more individual IDs on our network than there are crew on our ship. Clearly, people have found a way to create false identities so that they can post inflammatory material without having to sign their own names to it.”

“Fascinating,” Spock says, in a voice that says it really isn’t.

“If you’re not doing anything your second can’t handle, I propose that we give Sulu the conn and go see about heightening network security. I believe we are the most qualified candidates aboard?”

“That is correct.” He turns back to his station, taps a few keys. Then nods to his second to relieve him. “I thoroughly support this most logical course of action.” And he strides off towards the turbolift.

“Sulu,” Jim says, smiling, “you have the conn. Don’t crash the ship, okay?”

“Aye, sir,” Sulu replies, his careful non-inflection completely failing to disguise his heartfelt admiration.

***

_~So weird seeing my own name there,~_ Lieutenant Giotto posts.

 _~Just not the same,~_ a junior botanist agrees.

 _~And I wanted to mention this rumour I heard,~_ adds a statistician.

Ensign Kay Kringle posts seconds after Jim finishes deleting all dummy accounts originally created on B deck. _~I heard that it’s just basically inflatable, so he can make it whatever size he needs to blow your fucking mind. And the hybrid thing? You ever hear of hybrid vigour? A Vulcan can fuck you for hours, but this guy? He wouldn’t be satisfied with mere hours. Like, dude, check into sickbay for vitamin B12 shots and shit before you go on a date with him.~_

_~Oh, shit, why is my real name on that? Shitshitshit.~_

_~You are sadly misinformed about the meaning of the phrase ‘hybrid vigour’,~_ comments the charming Nurse Beau Nez a minute later. _~But get your dumb ass down to medical and we can certainly find some shots to give you.~_

“Spock?” Across the conference room table, Spock looks up from his terminal. “Leave the account of one Nurse Beau Nez alone, okay?”

“Nurse Nez does seem a bastion of good sense in this folly.”

“I’ll tell him you said that,” Jim says, and smiles, already imagining the grumbling he’ll receive for that.

***

“Go on, Bones, say it. You know you want to.”

Bones sighs and makes some tiny, fastidious adjustment to his handheld tissue regenerator. “Serves you damn right,” he says. Then he raises the instrument for a second attempt at de-blacking Jim’s eye. It whizzes and whirrs but really doesn’t make the area feel any different. Trust Jim to get himself a modern-medicine-proof injury, right?

“Yeah. I really should learn to cover my tracks better, huh?”

“Or you could, I don’t know, try _not_ adding to the mess of inane and hurtful rumours about your first officer.”

“Well,” says Jim quickly, “moving on. Isn’t Spock doing better with that whole Vulcan discipline thing these days? I’m telling you, man, he did not seem emotionally compromised _at all_ when he gave me this! Not even when I asked him about, you know, whether there was a kernel of truth to any of--”

“You didn’t.”

Jim frowns, ignoring the unpleasant pressing-a-bruise sensation that causes. “I didn’t?”

Bones rolls his eyes and mutters something about infants.

***END*** 


End file.
